Recoil. Part 26

The taxi dropped him at the John Hanc.o.c.k tower. It was a chill bleak day, the heavy overcast scudding quickly overhead, pedestrians chasing their hats in the Chicago winds.

He went into the tower and cruised through the bas.e.m.e.nt arcade of shops, making an aimless circuit, emerging from the side entrance and crossing briskly to the hotel garage opposite; he hired a nondescript small car there and drove it down Lake Sh.o.r.e Drive to the Loop.

He was not particularly well acquainted with Chicago but he knew the main landmarks and found his way without difficulty to his destination. He had arrived early for the meeting in order to see who went into the hotel. He recognized no one until he saw Bradleigh step out of a taxi and walk inside, hatless and ruddy, the tails of his open topcoat flapping in the gray wind.

He gave Bradleigh a five-minute lead, saw nothing that alarmed him, got out of the car, locked it and crossed the street just as rain began to slant onto the pavement. By the time he reached the hotel it was pouring.

Bradleigh was in the bar at a side table, cigarette smoke trailing from his mouth and nostrils. Mathieson went straight to him but Bradleigh's glance pa.s.sed over him twice without recognition until he was within three paces; then Bradleigh beamed, humor in the gentle eyes: "I didn't recognize you."

"That's good." He pulled the chair out and sat down.

"It's not just the hair and the moustache. You move differently. Have you lost weight?"

"Redistributed it."

"You look ten years younger."

"I'm in a little bit of a hurry, Glenn. Can we let that suffice for the amenities?"

"Do you want a drink?"

"No. I'd like to know what you've found out-how things are going, if anywhere."

"That's a little brusque, isn't it?"

"I haven't got much time."

"I'm beginning to wonder who's doing a favor for whom by coming here."

"Glenn, you still owe me a debt. I'm not letting you off the hook." For the first time in months he was making a contact that might be noticed-he was exposing himself and it made him nervous.

Bradleigh smiled rea.s.suringly. "Don't worry. I took all the standard measures and then some. We're not being watched."

"Not unless someone found out about this appointment."

"No one did. Count on it." The ritual lighting of a fresh filter tip; then Bradleigh said, "We've picked up a few tidbits on C. K. Gillespie. We'll be ready to nail him before long. When we do we expect him to sing."

"How long before you pounce?"

"A week, ten days. It depends on developments. If he doesn't let a few more things slip where our bugs can pick them up, we'll use what we've got and grab him anyway. We've got leads on at least four men who probably were involved in the Los Angeles business and the Oklahoma shooting--"

"Including Deffeldorf and Tyrone?"

Bradleigh's jaw dropped. "Where did you get those names?"

"A Ouija board."

"Have you been playing at amateur sleuth?"

"No."

"Then I don't get-"

"Just out of curiosity, who are the other two you're investigating? Aside from Tyrone and Deffeldorf?"

"A motorcycle freak named Ortiz and a friend of his by the name of Tony Senno."

"Angelinos?"

"From the area, yes. Burbank."

"Have you got hard evidence?"

"We're building a pretty good case."

"I hope you make it stick."

"We will. We're taking our time, we want to make sure it's airtight before we make the grab. The biggest break was Ortiz's rifle. We found it where he ditched it in a street trash can. He'd broken it down into components but we got enough to prove it's the rifle that fired at you-and the serial numbers that trace it back to Ortiz."

"Fingerprints?"

"No. n.o.body's that stupid. It's mainly circ.u.mstantial at the moment but we're convinced they're the right men. We'll take all four of them simultaneously. Then we'll work on them individually. Whichever one cracks, that's the one we'll use to pin the other three to the wall. OK, that's the good news. The bad news, of course, is that there's no chance any of them will ever be able to lead us back to Frank Pastor in a way that would stand up in court."

"We knew that before."

Bradleigh shook his head. "I get my nocturnal emissions from dreaming that someday I'll find enough rope around Pastor's neck to hang him with."

"Have you got anything at all on Pastor or Ezio Martin or George Ramiro?"

"I don't-Where'd you get Ramiro's name?"

"It's a talkative Ouija board."

"I don't know if I'm obliged to give you every sc.r.a.p that I've got."

"It's d.a.m.n well the least you can give me, Glenn."

Bradleigh showed his discomfiture. "Well as you know we've been bugging Gillespie every way from Sunday. Mostly he talks with Ezio Martin and mostly they do their talking in Martin's office in Manhattan. It's fully equipped-for example with an electronic jammer. All we get is static."

"But you do have those bits and pieces."

"Yes. For one thing, we're not the only ones who've been bugging Gillespie."

"No?"

"There are three sets of microphones in his office and his apartment. One set, each, is ours."

"And the other two?"

"We think Gillespie installed one set himself. The Nixon syndrome-the compulsion to record his own crimes for posterity. In case he ever has to go back and find out what actually happened. These people deal in lies all the time. Sometimes they need to check back, find out what lies they told somebody so that they can remember to stick to the story the next time they meet the same person."

"I see. And the third set?"

"We think it's Ezio Martin. We think maybe Ezio's getting a little jealous. Maybe he bugged Gillespie to try and get something on him so he can discredit Gillespie with Pastor. Martin would love to drive a wedge between them."

"That makes sense."

"Anyway we know the bugs aren't another government agency."

"Any evidence stronger than guesswork?"

"Yes. Fairly strong evidence. But I'd rather not divulge it."

"Just out of curiosity, if Gillespie happened across the two sets of microphones in his office-the ones he didn't plant himself-could he tell the difference between yours and Martin's? Would he know one bug was official and one wasn't?"

"He might, if he knew what to look for."

"Namely?"

"Why are you pumping me about it?"

"If I'm ever bugged," Mathieson lied, "I'd like to know how to tell whether it's official or private."

"There's no way to tell for sure. Gillespie's an easy obvious case. The next one might not be."

"Tell me anyway."

"h.e.l.l, it's simple enough. Ezio's equipment is wireless. He's got the best stuff money can buy-voice-activated miniature transmitters. Somewhere in the neighborhood there'll be a small receiving set and a ca.s.sette recorder attached to it. The recorder doesn't start running until somebody starts talking. It's not the most reliable system but it's the most practical, especially for an organization that doesn't have unlimited man-hours to spend on monitoring. But we prefer the old-fas.h.i.+oned wire, ourselves. A wire isn't subject to interference by radio-jamming equipment. The reception isn't affected by static in the air or neon lights in the vicinity. Anyhow that's the difference and it's easy enough to spot. The official microphones have wires attached to them. The other stuff-the mikes we think are Ezio Martin's-they don't have any wires on them."

"What about the bugs you said he planted on himself?"

"They're wired right into his own tape recorders in the desk drawers. They're activated by switches hidden under the desks."

"What about the phones?"

"We tapped the incoming lines. The other outfit puts bugs in the receivers. As a matter of fact that's where most of Ezio's mikes are-in the phones. It's as good a place to hide them as any." Bradleigh smiled vaguely. "I wish we'd been able to get wires into Ezio Martin's offices in New York. All we've been able to use has been bugs sewn into the b.u.t.tons of Gillespie's clothes and they've been wiped out by jammers whenever he goes inside. If we could get wires into Ezio's office we'd probably get enough on them to put them all away for consecutive five-hundred-year prison terms."

"Tell me what else you've found out."

"This may come as a shock to you, old buddy, but a lot of things don't have the remotest thing to do with you."

"Anything that has to do with Frank Pastor has to do with me. The more I know about him, the better I can keep out of his way."

"You're clutching at straws."

"Let me be the judge of that."

"I'm sorry. It just isn't included in the price of your ticket."

"My ticket came pretty high, Glenn. For instance when you people put my face and the Paul Baxter name out on a national FBI bulletin. Did you think that wouldn't get back to Pastor?"

"It wasn't my doing. I put a stop to it as fast as I humanly could. Who's been feeding you all this information about Deffeldorf and Tyrone and Ramiro and the FBI bulletin? Did you hire a private security outfit?"

"No," he lied. He had to put Bradleigh at ease and it had to be plausible. "Pastor found out I was off your hook and he decided I might get in touch with my old friends. He staked some of them out. We made the mistake of phoning one of them. His phone was tapped. Pastor's hoodlums started putting pressure on my friend, so my friend did some inquiring-he wanted to find out who was hara.s.sing him. He's a man with contacts in Los Angeles-big executives who have access to police officials. He found out about Deffeldorf and the FBI bulletin and all that. He told me about it-from a pay phone, of course."

"What friend was this?"

"He's out of it now. They've been leaving him alone. I don't want him interrogated by your people-I don't want him dragged back into it."

Bradleigh tapped his cigarette on the tabletop and lighted it. "What name are you going under?"

"Try another one."

Bradleigh smiled, evidently without wanting to. "Anything you need?"

"Information."

"About what?"

"Anything you've got."

Bradleigh said, "There's nothing you'd find useful. We're talking about the results of a secret investigation that's still in progress. It's got to stay secret until we blow the whistle."

"It's been nice talking to you, Glenn. Thanks for coming on such short notice. I'll be in touch."

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C.: 24 October

1.

HE SPENT TWO HOURS WITH HOMER SITTING IN THE PARKED Cadillac at a meter opposite the nine-story office building, Homer had the various photographs arranged on the seat between them-Gillespie, his junior partner, the two secretaries, the clerk and the receptionist.

At 4:30 the clerk appeared with a briefcase and walked to the corner to wait for a bus. Homer said, "Probably an errand to do on his way home. At this hour he won't be coming back."

"Let's hope."